a cairngorm crossing

Little the map bears witness to the ground

When beauty is the question first in mind

Nor is the truth of Ben Macdhui found

In surveys of the hill of any kind

Saving some contoured cart that's first and last

Etched in the biting joy of mountain days

And printed in remembrance of the past.

Where is the golden crucible whose blaze

Transmutes the melting summits one by one

And mixes western magic in a sky

Lovely with flame above Leviathan

That's red with rich drops from that alchemy

Thy elixir, O Lord, we seek in vain

To turn life's image back to life again

sydney scroggie

pretty please.  pretty photos.  pretty awesome.  the photos were all taken with brother kevin's camera device.  we went into the cairngorms looking for snow - and boy did we find it.  we found it boy.   the cairngorms are sometimes like a fragment of the arctic transposed to scotland.  the snow was falling the first day we left corrour bothy, but it was only when we got to the top of corrie odhar that the full force of the wind hit us, and dealt us mouthfuls of cold driven snow.  

we fell to our knees and had to shout to make ourselves heard.

"i say we head back to the bothy. we can try again tomorrow"

"but what if its like this tomorrow? why don't we push on now that we've started?"

 - imagine 10 miles of moine mhor battling against a stiff wind laden with snow - 

"i don't know . . . i'd rather head back to corrour, spend the rest of the afternoon by the fire then head out again fresh and early tomorrow"

"alright"

we hadn't brought ice axe or crampons; we were hoping that the snow would be kind to us.  i was cautiously kicking steps back down the lip of the corrie when kevin sat down and slowly began sliding.  i watched agape as his body built up speed hurtling all the way down till he slid to a halt quite far below.  he was okay.  he gave a whoop.  i slid down after him.  flushed with excitement, we walked back to the bothy, imagining this conversation:

"alright boys?  so you are not thinking of continuing across the moine mhor?"

"oh no, not us.  we were going to, but not in this weather.  we value our lives! we are heading back to cosy corrour"

"ah, that's a pity . . .  i have come all the way from ben macdhui . . . i caught wind of a couple of foolhardy underequipped fellows matching your description. are you sure it wasn't you?"

"no, no, its the bothy for us now . . .who are you anyway?"

"oh just another wanderer in the wilds " and then muttering to himself, "sometimes known as the grim reaper," he swaggers off.

the next day we woke to wonderful sun, a pristine blue sky, sparkling snow.  we feasted our eyes on the light show.  it was as if some snow faeries had come and lavishly sprinkled glitter everywhere.  then the clouds came and plunged us into a world of white.  it was eerie.  there were no longer any visual reference points, apart from our own boots and frosty beards and gloved hand holding a compass pointing west.   otherwise white snow at our feet, and thick white cloud all around.  it was a little bit like being blind.  my eyes desired detail, but the world gave me none.   it was like that for a couple of hours, with all our faith pinned on the blessèd compass, until we dropped down to glen feshie, and our eyes delighted again in colour and form.  it was so exciting to see the young pine trees that have sprouted all over upper glen feshie.  like the green life blood of the land, flowing and growing again and ensuring the survival of the great caledonian pine forest. maybe it is an example of what many parts of the highlands would be like if landowners reajusted their values and appreciated the land for the sake of the land instead of for the sake of deerhunting revenues.  elsewhere any young pine trees that spring up are quickly gnawed and mutilated by the unnaturally high deer population.  there is a palpable sense of peace in upper glen feshie.  a lot of the old pine trees - each one having grown into its unique gnarly self - are between two and three hundred years old.  they impart a sense of noble stability.  knobbly nobility - a knowing glance, a knowing branch - having witnessed copious wild winters and a light display lasting three centuries.